


The 1930s

by newmoons



Category: The Twilight Saga, Twilight (Movies), Twilight Saga, Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/F, Femslash, alice cullen/rosalie hale - Freeform, alice/rosalie - Freeform, female/female - Freeform, lgbt twilight saga, queer twilight saga, rosalie hale/alice cullen - Freeform, rosalie/alice - Freeform, the twilight saga - Freeform, twilight saga - Freeform, wlw, wlw twilight saga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Summary: Alice Cullen meets Rosalie Hale in a small-town dress shop, and can't get her out of her head for weeks.





	The 1930s

There's something about the 1930s that always makes me nostalgic.

Maybe it's the high-life and its obscene in-your-face, luxury lifestyle fashion, or the women with a string of pearls around their necks, pressing their hands to their chest as they laugh and lean forward. Or maybe that's the lonely heart in me, aching for someone to hold. I watch broodingly as one painfully beautiful blonde walks arm-in-arm with a generically "attractive" man-- for this time, anyways-- and brushes his bicep with her hand, speaking adoringly as he eyes the other women around us.

She's easily the most beautiful woman in the park, with a white sundress light enough for Spring loosely fluttering around her frame, not too thin, but sturdy enough to support her curves. And on her head, carefully tucked atop a meticulously styled bun, is a hat with a red ribbon tied around it and bordering the brim.

My teeth are nearly bared against the growl I can feel bubbling in my chest, but I quickly turn away to avoid making a scene; it's not often that I ruin my hard work by stepping in where I don't belong. But when I do, it's fucking worth it. The richness of the lifestyle of young people following the roaring 20s fits right in with how I would live-- if I could live-- while still remaining inconspicuous to humans. I've seen the coming depression of this area's economy-- likely this country's, as well-- and the true horror it will hold for the style of the nation. I'm living my best life while I can, indulging in the finest clothes and accessories while those around me are able to blend in with my style.

I like to think I'm a trend-starter, not a follower. But for the time being, I've seen it'd be easier to be myself during this era, where the clinking of champagne glasses and white gloves are on every hand in these cute little suburbs I've found. It's been a content, if not underwhelming, existence here... but there are some things that bother me about this quaint little town.

For one, the men. It's a given that the men of this generation and last believe they have an.... ownership.... to the young women they admire. If I had been alive during the cavemen era I believe I would find this behavior familiar; almost like imprinting on a woman and claiming her as theirs, going on a single date and believing the fate is sealed for their relationship. It's interesting, the change in dynamics in the last 30 years. Women have been more inclined to decline, as they should be... but that doesn't sit well with the men and their families who are bordering on the edge of a poverty-style economy without this marriage. Obviously, this is the push factors to marrying a man who takes interest in a daughter.

Suffice it to say, human nature is inherently selfish.

I am both determined and disgusted with this human charade: I can't very well place undeserving fear into these men's lives, but when I can... I take advantage of every ounce of my inhuman attributes. I have protected those in need before. I would do it again.

And, I guess, it's hard not to kill them when they're so self-absorbed. Who would miss them, really? These men who treat women like garbage and who, surely, if not kept an eye on, would threaten the women they're with into fearful obedience. It's the prime sin of humanity: fear, control, abuse... all wrapped up into one possessive characteristic, somehow topped with capitalism. But I know better. I've seen better. And to practice this new life, to hold these golden eyes, I have to keep my future as bright and, by proxy, my present bright enough.

The scents swirling around me didn't help, of course.

It may be a matter of familiarity; I can't remember anything from my human life (I envy that of this era, the sweet memories that these people have stored away forever), so everything is new, everything is ten times more intriguing. Everything except human blood, which is nothing as tantalizing as it would be in this life, no matter the amount of times I encounter it. 

There's nothing I haven't seen in nature for the time I've been "alive"; each blade of grass has gone through the same cycle of emeralds over the last two decades I have not aged, but the blush that might color a woman's cheeks is infinitesimally delicious in each of its reincarnations. I have watched the swirl of red a thousand times fluttering beneath the too-tempting thin cover of flesh (the protection nothing but paper to a knife in my case), and it always forces my retreat. Though there is a beauty in this fragility, and one that weakens me each time I see it, there is nothing worth the risk of ending such a warring splendor.

It's what I consider to be the beauty of humanity; the delight in watching a smile break across her features; one of the reasons I chose my job in this decade-- besides the fact that it's one of the only jobs a woman can have-- is to help bring that spark to even a single moment in someone's life. A dress can make a day, after all. Finding the perfect gown, or finding an outfit that flares confidence for the rest of the season? Well, there's nothing more pure and rewarding.

And it's not too bad to get paid for doing what you love-- except for when you can't catch a break.

My boss is a large, balding, and exponentially angry man, and the only reason I am allowed a break is because, despite my small size and feminine style, I can scare a man four times my size if need be with the right amount of exposure on my end. It's almost laughable, how quickly a man's respect can change for a woman when she stops putting up with his shit-- for whatever reason.

All it took was a particularly infuriating morning, with three rather petulant young men attempting to tell me how to do my job. One of them was an exceedingly over-dressed jock, who stared down at me with a half-smirk twisting his mouth. I had seen him a few times around the baseball field across town, leaning against the fence in crisp white baseball shirts. His name was Jason, and his father was a local politician.

"I think I'd rather talk to your manager, sweetie," he laughed when I showed him the third dress of the afternoon, which he waved away without a second look. He smiled and raised his hand to motion over my boss, who shot a cutting glare at me. I suppressed my urge to mirror his behavior.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting-- is there anything I can help you with?" He asked, reaching out to place his hand on Jason's shoulder with a friendly, fake grin. I rolled my eyes.

"Yes, sir. This gentleman is looking for a floor-length wedding down with a corset middle," I nodded, smiling in Jason's direction. He nodded in turn, and followed my boss to a different rack across the store. He pulled one from the many selections and turned to Jason.

"This is a favorite of our brides here. It's a vintage and isn't too long, which will show off any selection of heels that we have over here..." He held the dress straight with support from his forearm, his free hand gesturing to the wall where several pairs of heels were elevated on different shelves.

"What do you recommend?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and turning to consider the different lengths and shades. I kept my smile fixed, returning the dress in my hands to the rack and returning to the front of the store.

A young woman with short curled hair was staring intently at a bridesmaid's dress-- I think I had heard news of her recent engagement to a sweet young man who worked as a carpenter. She held her hand to her mouth, her fingers brushing her bottom lip as she scanned the racks.

I felt my irritation melt as I approached her in earnest, unlike the other customers today. She immediately stepped to the side at my advance, and reached out as if to grab a dress, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. That was something that broke my heart: despite whatever friendliness I may emit, there was always a natural fear humans would have of my kind. She looked up a moment later, as if to assuage her anxiety.

"Oh, you scared me," she breathed, and I couldn't help but smile in response.

"I'm sorry," I replied, reaching out to pull the dress she had grabbed for. "If it helps, I think this dress would look lovely on you. It's a lighter material you can breathe in throughout the day. May I ask what the theme of the occasion will be?" I tilted my head, something humans seem to do when they're asking questions, and waited patiently for her answer.

"Well.... I like this one, but.. do you have anything that will keep me from... showing?" The girl blushed a pretty pink, her lips pushing together in embarrassment as her eyes fell to the floor. Vera, I remembered her name was. I softened to her sentiment, and gently placed my hand on her shoulder, over the material of her clothing to keep from giving her any reason to question the coldness of my skin on such a hot Southern day.

"Of course," I said, and led her to the back of the store, where our summer catalogue display was kept. I attempted not to wonder how my boss was managing with Jason, ignoring the brief flicker playing like visual background noise behind my eyelids.

The woman I had seen earlier in the day seemed to be deciding on venturing to Vera's house, a surprise visit. Her other choice seemed to be coming to the shop to peruse a dress for the outing first.

I hoped it was the latter. I knew exactly what kind of dress she would look best in.

She had a unique figure that didn't seem to fit the style of the times. She was curvy, a full hourglass figure, beautiful, thick, rich curls, and dripping in self-confidence. Her head was always held high, accentuating her prominent collarbones and the gentle slope of her throat to her shoulders, and a knowing smirk on her lips as she passed the men who watched her. It was easy to tell she loved the attention; I wasn't sure she'd appreciate it from a woman, though.

Where most relationships these days were modeled by a power dynamic of meek and subordinate versus domineering and overconfident, I couldn't imagine the blonde to put up with much. She seemed gently in love but, if crossed, a hellfire to placate.

I loved that about her. It was jarringly exclusive to her nature.

But this was the difficulty of my gift. Seeing things the way others decided it, and my own choice, no matter how well-informed, being irrelevant to the cause of their future. Sure, I could warn others, but from what I recall a psychic isn't looked upon highly in these areas. Being mocked is a gentle trial here.

And so I pretended to be blind to false arguments, pining to console the women who apologized first where they did not need to, or who visited their husbands with a warm lunch made for them by hand. The rich were diluded into thinking their lives were full.

Which made Vera's coming marriage a welcome divergence.

Her husband, I could see, greatly valued his wife-to-be. His tears on their wedding day would be genuine, and he wouldn't hold them back. He would want her to see how much he truly worshipped this day as the best in his life. She would grin back from under her viel before he gently uncovered her soft features, accentuated only lightly by makeup done by her best friend.

Though I was getting ahead of myself. I attempted now to blink past the images playing like a movie behind the real world as though it were fading to black, lesser a reality than the coming events that unfolded before me.

Vera was examining what I held for her. It was white, with golden designs flowing from the shoulders. It came with a pale cream straw hat decorated with a white sash.

"I like this one," she commented politely, running her fingers over the thin, silky material. I asked her if she'd like me to help her with her purchase, to which she nodded and began to walk to the counter. We passed Jason and my boss as they exited.

After checking out, Vera nodded politely at me, and left the store. I opened my mouth to wish her a good day, but my breath, already unncessary, left me in a whoosh. I saw the images sweep over my field of vision.

Vera, trying on the dress and walking to a friend's house. The blonde woman I had seen this morning, with... Royce King. I could name him, seeing him in focus now. He was, of course, the most well-known man in town. And he had finally found a suitor.

I sneered. He had a reputation for weekly flames, and the woman on his arm was nothing short of a goddess. Her eyes had twinkled with adoration, with expectation, with the sweet naivete of first love.

And my vision swirled around her in vibrant colors, as solid as if she stood in front of me.

I wish she were.


End file.
